One Word: Devastation
by alyxpoe
Summary: Summary: Have you ever wondered, what if Season three was just a dream? What might have happened in its place? JOHNLOCK


**One Word: Devastation**

**Alyx Poe**

**Devastation: **noun: devastation; plural noun: devastations

1. great destruction or damage.

2. severe and overwhelming shock or grief.

Summary: _Have you ever wondered, what if Season three was just a dream? What might have happened in its place?_

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><p>Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting…<p>

Dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

~Edgar Allan Poe~

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><p><strong>Depression, Isolation<strong>

DI Gregory Lestrade stands outside the black wooden door, his eyes on the ground and his ears pricked for anything happening beyond it, trying to hold in his gasping breath from sprinting up the steps. Beyond the landing where he stands, there is a very telling lack of sound. Too telling. It looks as if the text sent to his phone twenty minutes ago was right on the money. He slams the side of his fist against the door again, hoping beyond hope that it's not in vain.

"John, let me in. I know you're in there."

Nothing but silence answers. Greg digs around and yanks his phone out of his pocket and composes a text as quickly as his stiff fingers will allow him then takes a deep breath, leans back and shoves his shoulder into the door hard enough to rock it in its hinges. Angry now, and feeling like he's running out of time, he steps backwards two steps and kicks the knob, finally gaining access to the flat when the thing falls off and bounces down the steps.

_Thump, thump, thump_.

It's only been several hours since Sherlock Holmes dived from the roof of Bart's hospital, but in that time so much has happened and the one man he was supposed to keep an eye on throughout it all is the one who fell off the radar.

Not now though, the scene that greets Greg is that out of a horror story and something no friend should ever have to share in; all made the more blindingly real by the fact that it may very well be Greg's fault that he's here in the first place.

Sitting in the ratty old red armchair he prefers John Watson is holding a handgun to his head-_his _handgun, the illegal one Greg doesn't know about, the very one; when he turns his empty gaze towards Greg, tiny pupils like pinheads are rimmed with bright red. The pain emanating from this man is so strong that the DI can practically taste it. His bare feet and trembling chin only add to the tableau of misery and vulnerability.

Right now, John's heart isn't just on his sleeve, it's a giant red target painted all over his entire goddamned body. Greg knows he has about two seconds to decide the best way to save that heart as his own starts to speed up when John's voice, broken, cracked, destroyed—nothing close to the normal tone—cuts through the net of despair to reach Greg's ears.

"He's gone. He's gone, I can't..." John closes his eyes and tilts his head towards the gaping barrel of the gun.

The black hole of it is all Greg can see, but somehow time slows down enough so that when John's finger on the trigger flexes, Greg barrels forward, stretching out his arms and knocking the gun from his hand, ignoring the danger that he's surrounded himself with right then.

It never occurs to him that the life he is working so hard to save may not accept that salvation but the thought is moot when the gun goes off, the bullet grazing John's temple; John crumples to the floor and Greg, still moving, lands on his knees next to him. He doesn't think when he grabs John by the shoulders and pulls him against his body and holds him, rocking back and forth, letting the doctor weep into him, an overwhelming feeling of relief washing over him as both chills and the sweat he can feel dripping from the back of his neck. By the time the paramedics show up, Greg has already shoved the gun beneath the sofa with his foot.

The DI pulls John up to stand; and other than swaying on his feet a little, John seems unaware of the blood dripping down the side of his face or the fact the he's being ushered down the steps and into the waiting ambulance. John Watson seems unaware that he is even _alive_.

"Mycroft, it is _over_!" Sherlock shouts, slamming his fists against the top of his older brother's fine antique desk, green eyes flashing, brows knitted together over his nose. "I can't leave him. I won't. Not now!"

"There is nothing you can do, brother mi..." Mycroft tries in his best soothing-the-baby voice.

"Don't!" Sherlock spins away from the top of the desk, fingers disappearing into his hair as he moves. "No. You take care of it. It's what you wanted in the first place. Jim is _dead_, Mycroft. Finish it."

"What about..." Mycroft says softly as Sherlock stops his fevered pacing at the exit door at the back of Mycroft's office.

"I don't care!" Sherlock yells at the top of his lungs, pointing at Mycroft with a trembling finger that he doesn't bother to hide.

This, more than Sherlock's voice or posture tells Mycroft everything he needs to know about the state of Sherlock's heart, a separate entity that reacts in its own way, regardless of the state of his _mind_.

Sherlock shakes his head dramatically and pulls at the doorknob. The door remains stubbornly closed.

"Let me out of here," Sherlock growls between clenched teeth. There's dried blood down the side of his face and his clothes are wrinkled and tugged out of place.

"No, Sherlock, I cannot let you back out there. You know what is going happen..." Mycroft decides that stalling for time, because the proper paperwork has yet to be completed, is possibly not going to work at this point.

Without another word, Sherlock bounces back on his toes, swings his legs in a perfect roundhouse and kicks the doorknob clean off. The last thing Mycroft hears before the sound of running feet against the polished tiles in the corridor is, "Fix it, Mycroft!" and Sherlock is out of earshot but in his mind's eye, Mycroft can still just make him out, hands buried in his hair in the same manner he always did as a child, looking every bit the mad scientist but more dangerous now with no outlet for his rage. Well, damn the paperwork then.

Secretly, Mycroft truly fears for anyone his little brother comes across as he makes his way straight for one John Watson, because, really? Where else would he go?

Mycroft closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, reflecting on how badly the entire plan has just been torn asunder. Had Sherlock simply included John is _his_ plans in the first place...Mycroft opens his eyes, ice blue now to match the dying light outside his window. It is fruitless to worry about plans already burned to ash. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his right hand and presses a button on a telephone on his desk with the left.

"Anthea, Plan B, please," Mycroft states with authority and no little irritation, tugging at the bottom of his waistcoat.

"Yes sir," comes his PA's voice over the intercom.

He doesn't reply, only presses the button again then opens the top drawer of his desk and lays his own mobile down in front of him. Quickly, he scans through the three text messages from DI Lestrade and sends one back to him.

_Let the dark seraph return to the roost where he is most secure. Plan B in effect. -MH_

For forty-eight hours, John does not speak nor acknowledge anyone. He falls into a trance-like state and seems unaware of anything happening around him. Stymied, his attending physician admits him into a private room where he remains silent, machines beeping, reminding his heart to keep pumping, his lungs to keep taking in oxygen and the synapses in his brain to continue firing.

Continue to fire, his brain does. John is borne aloft on dreams of the future. He dreams of his best friend returning to life on the eve he proposes to a woman named Mary; he dreams of a fantastic wedding with a speech that melts his heart all over his shoes; he dreams a vague dream of child with blue eyes and a black mop of curly hair mixed in with dreams of a deranged black-mailer and Sherlock, his personal phoenix, raising his gun and pulling…

the…

trigger…

"_Sherlock!"_ John's awareness is practically nil now save for his own voice screaming, terrified into the darkness, into a night where his best friend, the man that he has loved practically from the beginning dives from the top of hospital out of sheer desperation. Running from a bad man.

John is unaware of the tears streaming from his eyes anew; he knows nothing of his sister shuffling into his room, grasping his hands and weeping, sure that he is lost.

She leaves and does not return, instead taking solace in the bottom of a bottle for being the last surviving member of her family; silently forgetting that her brother is by no means no longer among the living.

Across London, Greg's phone chirps out an obnoxiously tween-age warning for an incoming text message. Sherlock somehow fiddled with the damned thing last week and as much as Greg hates it, he has to admit that it is actually louder than it was before, so he no longer has the excuse of not answering the consulting detective's messages because he cannot hear his phone ring. He sits forward and pulls it out of his trouser pocket, reads the text, fires off an affirmative reply and stuffs it back away. Greg then goes back to the worn, dog-eared paperback novel in his hands, ignoring the majority of the passers-by from where he is perched in a hard plastic chair outside John Watson's hospital room.

A scuffle down the corridor pulls Greg from his semi-hibernation. Sherlock is bustling through a group of hospital staff who are all attempting to stop him. As soon as it looks like the consulting detective is ready to come to blows, Greg calls down the hall.

"Let him in! He's been cleared."

Greg jogs over to the group, taking in the worried expressions on the faces of the four staff members and the murderous one on Sherlock's face. Greg wordlessly points at the door of John's room.

Instantly, Sherlock's expression falls, only where Greg can see it as he brushes by the DI, not in such a rush now, but sure that the other man can hear the blood racing through his arteries. His heart could explode, he could stroke out, he could care less because _nothing_ is going to stop him from being at John's side the very second he awakens.

It is exactly the forty-eighth hour, almost to the second, when Sherlock Holmes goes to his knees next to the hospital bed containing his life, his sun, his north star and begins to weep silently, for the first time in his life absolutely regretting a decision he made in the heat of the moment that has brought about the devastation before him.

**Denial**

Dr. John Watson, formerly of Her Majesty's army, now lies prone on a hard hospital cot and dreams, soldierly even in his stiff shoulders and tense hands. A blonde woman wearing a red coat smiles at him in these dreams, a slightly crooked smile, her eyes lit up with what could be love…and something John cannot identify. Vague impressions of a whirling kaleidoscope of colors spiral around him, when he looks down, he's wearing a tuxedo and Sherlock is standing in front of him, wearing nothing except that complex expression he gets when he really wants to say something to John, especially something _big_ that John isn't going to much like.

In his dream, John considers this for a moment before the detective shoos him away. Sherlock's lips are moving, but John cannot make out the words, all he can see is lean muscle tensing and relaxing beneath sparsely haired skin that must be as hot as the middle of a bonfire built high in the center of a wintry field.

Somehow, though, by the shape of his mouth, John would swear Sherlock is saying _I love you._ John desperately wants to touch. He reaches out and white lights flash around him as a mayfly the size of a horse with transparent, tissue-thin wings hovers in front of his face for a millisecond, the meaningless associations plunging his mind back down into darkness.

"Sherlock, you really ought to get up." Mycroft grips his brother's shoulder tightly, gently shaking the younger man as if to wake him up.

But Sherlock isn't asleep, he's merely shut himself down in order to listen to every breath being drawn through John's chest.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock growls, not turning his head or making any move to get up off the floor. He never questions how quickly Mycroft gets to him wherever he may be, simply takes his brother's presence for granted, even now as he detests it.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft attempts, though he does step back a pace.

"Don't care." Sherlock states then takes a deep breath to make it clear he is saying nothing else.

Mycroft stares down at the man on the floor, but in his mind he is only seeing the same man with the same too-thin shoulder blades that push up against his shirt a handful of years ago, only then Sherlock was on his knees begging and pleading for another reason entirely. Surely, Mycroft thinks, this is not the same thing at all—this time, Sherlock is begging and pleading for _someone else_.

At least Sherlock allowed him into the room, which is more than can be said of anyone else of their mutual acquaintance.

Mycroft leans down this time, placing a soft kiss into the riotous mess that Sherlock's hair has become with no attention paid to it in the last two days. For a few precious seconds, the present falls away and the years of antagonizing each other are as if they've never been. It isn't enough, though, to bridge the wide canyon between them…it never really is.

Mycroft takes his leave, his icy gaze falling over the almost-still figure in the bed then returns to the back of Sherlock's bowed head. Some part of him still longs to reach out and offer comfort for the turmoil so plainly etched over Sherlock's entire self…though the stronger, most official, more sage part of him knows better than to even make the attempt. Not here, not now, not like this.

Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, Mycroft shakes his head against the unwelcome jolt of nostalgia and unobtrusively leaves the room the way all gentleman should.

For the next seventy five minutes, Sherlock remains next to John's bed in supplication, knees and back aching as the chill of the tile seeps in through his thin trousers. He refuses to move because he wants to see the moment John recognizes him, no matter what his reaction is going to be after the fact.

It is there, at the bottom of that forty-eighth hour that John's limbs begin to tremble, his breathing comes a little faster, his pulse rate begins to climb…and then he furrows his brow and opens his eyes.

Strange images begin to fall away as John's consciousness picks out the presence next to him: a pair of thin, round-framed glasses with an odd pattern of digital numbers imprinted on the lenses rest next to a shiny bronze statue of a young naked boy riding an ostrich and brandishing a spear. None of this makes any sense.

He feels splayed open, as if his chest has been cracked and his beating heart shown live on a screen the size of the London Eye to the entire world; he's laid out on an operating table with the theatre is a landing strip and there's a private jet, its long, silver nose quite so phallic where it stands behind Sherlock, the wind whipping the blue scarf around his neck as well as his hair…and his eyes, emeralds turned flint and he's watching John as if waiting for a chance to say…_something_.

Something important.

John has missed it again.

John fights the heavy sensation weighing down his hands, his feet, and his eyes…his chest?

Painfully, light, muted as it is, stabs his eyes and John narrows them with a great effort in order to be greeted with another world-shifting view: a mound of tousled black curls lying on his chest. Further down, he can make out pale skin and the corner of the mole he knows so well.

John's heart races, pounding against his ribs as if warning him that this is _wrong_, _all wrong_…he struggles against the feeling, gasping into the oxygen mask over his face until the frizzy mop flips over and…

and…

and…

The heart monitor goes ballistic when Sherlock's eyes bore into John's with a familiar intensity that he believed he would never see again. John tries to still his breathing, knows that he is hyperventilating, yet he's at the mercy of his overworked mind and exhausted body.

There are pounding feet in the corridor as John grabs at the oxygen mask and for a split second the two men size each other up. John shakes violently, shoving at Sherlock's shoulders with weak hands.

Sherlock moves no farther away except that his cheek is no longer lying against John's chest and in that instant before the door slams open to admit hospital staff and the cold, white, unfeeling crash cart…

In that instant, John Watson believes he has gone insane. His heels dig for purchase against the bedclothes and he thrashes, finally succeeds in yanking the oxygen mask off his face.

Sherlock holds his hands up and John fights against the hallucination of seeing him on his knees, lights flashing around them, holding his hands up to some unknown entity to prove he's unarmed…John gulps for air, the bed creaks and shakes beneath him, tears run down his face and John Watson yells at the top of his burning lungs,

"Get the fuck out!"

**Anger**

"I don't know what the hell you're playing at! He's dead! He's gone! Get out!"

Sherlock scrambles backwards so fast he ends up falling hard onto his arse. By the time Greg gets into the room, John has winded himself. Within ten seconds, the place is in a complete uproar. John's primary physician is doing her level best to calm him down, two nurses are trying to shut the chaotically-beeping machines off and Greg is attempting to pull Sherlock up off the floor and out of the room, a useless endeavor because the tall, thin man is fighting back by going boneless and becoming as light as a sack of cement bricks.

Finally, John goes eerily silent. He is no longer attached to any of the machines when the nurses and the doctor step away from him. John angrily glares at them, the scarlet of his face broken only by the glittering of tear tracks and the stormy blue of his eyes.

"Get. Out." John growls; his jaw is clenched so hard that everyone in the room can make out each individual muscle.

From his stubbornly held spot on the floor not five feet from John's side, Sherlock regards John's sweaty countenance, his trembling body and the V-shaped vein standing up in the center of his forehead over severely furrowed brows. Deep creases have appeared at the sides of his mouth; his bottom lip is puffy where he's just bitten into it.

After an eternity, the medical staff leave the room. Greg follows them after giving Sherlock a fatherly pat on the shoulder and making a silent plea to Saint Jude. For certain, the DI knows a lost cause when he sees one; his only hope is that Sherlock hasn't fucked this up beyond repair this time.

The door clicks shut, leaving Sherlock and John alone to face each other through a leaden silence.

Sherlock gazes at John for longer than is probably considered to be 'proper,' but he is paralyzed down here on the floor by everything he can see flashing through John's eyes.

"I said get out." John doesn't stop looking down at Sherlock, doesn't take his attention from the man leaning back away from him almost against his will; that fact negates his words.

"John," Sherlock whispers into the deep metaphorical canyon now splitting the hospital room in twain, a non-existent dividing between them.

John swallows hard, coughs into his hand. He hasn't replaced the oxygen mask and no one seemed to be arguing with him about it prior to their collective hasty exits. Sherlock wonders if he should still make use of it from the way his skin has suddenly gone pale and waxy as the blood stirred up by fury and adrenaline begins to move away from the veins and capillaries in John's face.

"The mask…" Sherlock tries, gesturing lamely towards where it hangs on John's neck.

This time when John looks at him, really _looks_, Sherlock is able to pinpoint the exact moment realization sets in. John inhales rapidly, wheezing a little at the obvious recognition that the detective is not a hallucination.

"How?" John is openly staring now; he shakes his head against the onslaught of information, replaying what he had gleaned from their physical contact while still out cold.

"No," he states to the room at large in a gruff, utterly devastated tone. "No. Tell me why." John's voice fills with cold fury and he slams his fist against the mattress.

Sherlock knows all too well the signs of a John Watson spoiling to hurt something or someone. Usually, that emotion is filtered into doing it _for_ Sherlock; however, he's genius enough to know _not this time_. John does not like dealing with his emotions on the surface and Sherlock has shook an awful lot of cobwebs down from those deeply hidden rafters.

The 'dead' man scoots into a more comfortable position by straightening his spine and crosses his legs in front of him; instinctively he brings his feet to his thighs and settles into the lotus position. It makes him seem more collected than he actually feels as well as serves the purpose, if John is not so far gone, of making him look smaller.

John watches Sherlock move his gangly limbs into place gracefully and an irrational desire to _smash_ the tall man's poise and elegance washes over him with the force of a supernatural tsunami. He's never felt this way before and the very idea appalls him, though decking the posh bastard about now would probably go a long way to helping him cope with his fury. Sucker punching him certainly will not help him cope with what is causing the fury in the first place because John is unsure which thing he's angriest about: Sherlock dying or Sherlock coming back to life.

Sherlock reflects on how easy it is to destroy everything they've been building up between them in forty-eight hours. He gazes back at John, this time not schooling his features into the 'I don't care' expression; instead he leaves himself wide open for whatever attack John needs to make upon his person. Sherlock will not fight back, not this time. To his ears, his own shaky exhalation is proof of his shattered world view, his ruined self-worth and his devastated heart.

In truth, Sherlock Holmes is completely shattered and he blames no one but himself.

John takes a deep breath while holding the oxygen mask up to his face without actually putting it on, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

Sherlock fights the urge to squirm against that gaze, not realizing it's the same one he tends to level on other people. "John, I…"

"Shut it," John snaps, his eyes drinking in the sight before him as if they've been in the Registan and Sherlock is water.

Sherlock can mentally visualize a wall of ice being thrown up between them and thinks _so much for the desert_.

"Get over here."

Sherlock slowly unfolds himself, still keeping his full attention on John's face. He stands and takes three steps to the side of the bed.

"Sit."

Sherlock sits and waits; and though it causes him physical pain, he is careful not to touch John in any way. When John's hands come up towards his face, it's all he can do to remember that whatever punishment John is going to mete out, he deserves it. After all, John almost made the worst choice of his life and Sherlock is all too aware of his part in that decision. His chance to run, to finish what he'd started, was over the second he broke the door knob off in Mycroft's office. This thought causes icy cold fingers of _what could have been _to trace a line down his back and he shudders against them.

Instead of being decked, however, John's hands land on either side of Sherlock's face, blunt fingers curling into Sherlock's hair while the detective takes in a shocked breath. His heart kicks up an orchestra-level tempo in his chest when John leans forward to rest his forehead against Sherlock's.

Sherlock's breath hitches and he's caught between pulling away and simply letting the tears welling in his eyes fall. John takes the choice out of his hands by tightening his hold and placing a petal soft, sweetly innocent kiss right on Sherlock's mouth. Once he stops being stunned, Sherlock kisses him back but otherwise does not move. John breaks the kiss, moving so that their mouths no longer touch but their respirations mingle.

Sherlock has no idea how to respond. How is it possible to receive adoration when he was expecting anger?

"Fuck could you do that to me, Sherlock?" John whispers into the warm cycle of air passing between their lips.

"I had to protect you." Sherlock will never admit to sobbing, though that seems to be exactly what is happening. "You, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson." He sniffs, wipes under his nose with the side of his hand.

"Sherlock…I almost…" John tries, his own much denied emotions quickly overwhelming him.

"I know, John. I know."

Sherlock impulsively wraps his arms around John's shoulders and drags him in tight, pressing the injured man snugly against his chest. Sherlock curls over him so that John's face is against Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock's nose buried in the hair above John's ear.

The only sound for a few moments is the cracking sound of two men valiantly trying to ignore their tears; trying to pretend neither of them have looked into a future, each without the other and decided he could not live alone.

Outside the door, footsteps pass by—another world that does not exist presently to the men wrapped around each other.

"I don't know that I can forgive," John states firmly.

Sherlock tenses then realizes everything that has happened so far exceeded his expectations. He nods wordlessly in agreement.

"And you are going to tell me everything," John says. Sherlock nods a second time against his shoulder. John sits back, keeping Sherlock at arms' length, but moving so that he is able to rest against the headboard of the narrow cot.

"You kissed me," Sherlock announces, raising his head and staring at the empty wall to John's left.

"I did," John agrees, running a hand through his hair then grabbing one of Sherlock's where they've dropped in his lap, giving the detective the chance to back away if he needs to. When Sherlock neither voices a protest nor moves at all, John sighs. "I've been dreaming. Terrible dreams, Sherlock; a life without you. I just…I can't."

Sherlock drags a skiff through a hazy river of memories, desperately seeking something he can say to that. When he alights on it, he asks "Do you want to tell me about them?"

An odd sort of tight, twisted smile alights on John's lips for a few seconds. "Not now."

Sherlock shrugs, stares down at their hands linked together. He is more out of his depth now that he was two days ago when he was in the middle of being taken by surprise at Moriarty deep-throating a handgun. "Moriarty is dead."

For his part, John doesn't know where to go with that information. "Is it over, then?"

Sherlock watches as John closes his eyes, tilts his head against the wall. He wants so badly to say 'yes' but lying to John right now is probably a bigger mistake than jumping from a hospital rooftop. "Mostly. My part is anyway. I've left the rest up to Mycroft."

**Bargaining**

Martha Hudson sits alone in her kitchen, savoring the flavor of her favorite tea as well as the mellow sunshine meekly filtering in through the hand-sewn curtain that covers the window. She's feeling a bit off kilter this morning given the rather peculiar events of the last three days. Martha exhales and laughs at herself a bit. As if life that revolves around the crazy boy who ensured Charles' execution could ever be any other way, honestly!

She sets the dainty teacup on the table and slowly stretches her arms over her head, wincing at the slight twinge in her hip.

"Damned thing," she mutters then finishes off the rather delicious tea, if she does say so herself. Moving from the table, she gathers her single saucer, single cup and her spoon and drops them into the sink to be washed after a while. There's more important things to be seeing to today. Martha heads towards her bedroom to change into some more respectable clothes, what is it the kids call them nowadays? Ah, that's it, _street clothes_. She laughs a little to herself, thinking that when she was younger that term certainly carried a whole different meaning.

She's taking a clean blouse off the hangar in her wardrobe when the mobile Sherlock gave her rings in the pocket of her apron. Well, she thinks, fumbling a bit with the swiping of the locked screen, she did promise she would answer it if it ever rang.

"Hello?" Martha gives up on the changing of clothes for the moment and sits down on her pink and purple flowered duvet in order to have a conversation. People are so rude these days, they never seem to take the time to just talk to each other, she considers as she straightens out a single wrinkle on her made-neat-as-a-pin bed.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Naturally, she recognizes John Watson's voice on the other end of the line as soon as he speaks. Naturally, too, or maybe not so much, she also notes the gravely sound of the throat of someone who has recently had a breathing tube removed.

"Oh, John! It is so good to hear from you, I was so concerned when you…" it is not polite to say _tried to blow your brains all over my upstairs flat_ so instead she says, "…got hurt. How are you dear?"

John exhales and Martha picks up on the subtle tells the man truly thinks he hides from everyone. "I'm going to be alright, Mrs. Hudson." There is a pause. "I'm sorry, could you hold on one second, please?"

"Yes, I can hold on," she answers.

"Thanks." There's a funny sound as he sets the mobile against his leg? Perhaps, maybe against the bed. She wonders idly why he doesn't just hit the 'mute' button then decides trying to ever figure out why men do the things they do because it simply isn't worth the fuss. If life has taught her nothing else, it's certainly taught her _that_.

As he comes back on the line, John clears his throat and the sound is so raw and so painful that Martha blanches against an old memory. "Are you sitting down?"

Mrs. Hudson frowns. What new devilry is this? "Yes, John. Is something wrong? Where are you? Do you need me to come and get you?" is what she asks, even though she's thinking, _Where is this boy's mother?_ Chiding herself at her worries she corrects her thinking and reminds her silly brain that John is not exactly a 'boy' when dancing about on this side of forty.

"Uh, okay. I need to tell you something, Mrs. Hudson, and it might be a bit, well, shocking to say the least…"

Gah! These men. Do they really think she's as fragile as all that? She was married to a serial killer and rents a flat to _Sherlock Holmes_ for God's sakes!

"John, whatever it is, trust me, you are going to have a hard time shocking me."

There's another pause, another funny sound and finally John rasps, "Could you please come?"

"Of course my boy, of course." Martha is happy to have an end to this strange conversation.

Pressing the 'end' button after John informs her which hospital he's in, she puts the phone down on her bed and proceeds to change into a nice baby's breath blue blouse and a pair of navy blue trousers. She steps into a pair of black no-nonsense shoes and shrugs into her favorite coat, taking her time with it all so as to not get her hip acting up.

She checks to be sure her wallet is in her pocketbook, takes it out and slips it and her phone into her trouser pockets. Before she leaves her flat, she double-checks that the hob is turned off, no lights are left on and that she has her key then closes the door behind her as she steps out onto Baker Street to hail a taxi, only remembering as she clambers into the backseat that she has forgotten to ask John if he needs anything.

Perhaps a stop by the bakery wouldn't be remiss, an offer of comfort food should help smooth any particularly ruffled feathers, at least in her opinion.

Martha greets Greg Lestrade at the door to John's room. She pats the Detective Inspector on the cheek as if he's a hungry nine year old and hands him a hot buttery bun which he takes with a huge grin.

"Ta, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Still on guard duty, then, Gregory?" Martha smiles back easily. She's always liked the man and she is fairly certain he must have the patience of a saint and the constitution of a Clydesdale to put up with not just one Holmes brother, but both of them.

"You know it. Until the all-clear is given, this is my office for the duration." Greg takes a large bite out of the bun and closes his eyes in ecstasy at the sweet buttery flavor.

"May I?" Martha asks, nodding towards the door and readjusting the bakery bag in her hand.

"Sure, go on in. Tread lightly, though, alright? It's not been exactly quiet in there this morning." Greg points at the door with the hand not clutching the pastry.

"Thank you, Gregory." Mrs. Hudson pushes through carefully, pausing a moment to take in the scene in front of her.

_There is certainly something to all those rumors_, she thinks immediately upon spying the two men in the room.

Sherlock-I'm-going-to-strangle-him-with-my-bare-hands-Holmes has pulled one of the two chairs in the room up alongside John's cot. Though Martha cannot make out the words, it is obvious he is talking a mile a minute, his torso tilting towards the right a little from where his arm is tucked beneath John's shoulders. John's eyes are closed, he is either truly asleep or listening intently to Sherlock's rumbly baritone. Sherlock's head is bowed over John, obviously creating a shield between John and the rest of the world.

It is more the look of reverence, the complete rapture, the absolute expression of focus on John and John alone that holds her in place.

For an instant, she feels the same as if she did walking into an almost empty cathedral once with her old Aunty Mildred, the only people still there were some late parishioners paying their respects in one of the alcoves. The way Sherlock looks right now, his normally so-carefully-coiffed curls in a frizzy mess, a stain of something rust-like on his temple, his entire body radiating exhaustion but the words he doesn't ever say are emblazoned on his face as brightly as if they were etched in the skin then filled with neon.

Not really wanting to interrupt the obvious fragile moment, Martha takes a step backward with the intention of closing the door but Sherlock's ultrasensitive ears pick up the slight sound of her heel scuffing against the linoleum, and she stops, pinned by the green fire in that gaze.

"Mrs. Hudson," he says carefully, his voice changing in tone from _informing_ to _cautious._

Martha knows well the signs of penance and doesn't feel it is her place to forgive him. Of course, if anyone could ever pull something like this off, it would certainly be Sherlock and he would certainly return in much the same dramatic fashion. This time, though, there were higher stakes than even he reckoned for.

"Sherlock." Martha states evenly, keeping herself rooted where she stands. Part of her wants to rail at him while the other part wants to hold him close like the son he's come to be. He continues to stare at her; she knows he is sizing her up, deducing everything she's done in the past three days. Then his eyes narrow when he takes in the bakery bag and he frowns, curious.

Sherlock starts to speak until John makes a fraction of a sound, pulling all of Sherlock's attention back to him. When it seems John is going to remain quiet, Martha points to the other chair in the room.

"May I?" she asks politely, echoing what she said to Greg a few minutes ago.

Sherlock blinks up at her for a second as if he'd forgotten she was there. "Oh," he says, standing up to pull the chair over for her. Its metal legs squeak a little against the floor and John's eyes fly open.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he croaks.

"Yes, John, I'm right here." Martha leans towards the bed, hoping to hide the wince when her hip twinges, but both men catch it.

"Sherlock, give her your chair." John orders. Sherlock doesn't hesitate and slides his backside out of the chair before John finishes speaking. He takes the other one, resting his hand on the blanket right over where John's shin happens to be.

Martha Hudson is no fool and she can clearly see how these two idiots can barely keep their hands off each other as if to be in contact in some way constantly. Idly, she wonders if it has been like that the whole time John has been in hospital.

John regards her silently for a moment, so much like Sherlock that she almost asks him if he realizes he's doing it. His expression changes rapidly from quiet contemplation to utterly sad and devastated. "You knew," he rasps.

Martha shakes her head vehemently. "No, John, I didn't."

But the betrayed look doesn't leave John's eyes even if his face relaxes some. It would be obvious to a blind person that John doesn't exactly believe her.

"No, John, listen to me…" she says at the same time Sherlock cuts in.

"No one but Mycroft and Molly, John, no one else, I swear." Sherlock's whole frame is trembling now, the hand on John's leg gripping so hard his knuckles blanch.

"Greg?" John asks, staring at Sherlock the way Mrs. Hudson is sure a hawk stares down a mouse. If this were any other situation, it might actually prove to be a bit humorous.

This time Sherlock shakes his head. "No, Mycroft had to tell him when you…"

Those unspoken words hang in the air, ripe with emotion, above their heads. Mrs. Hudson is uncomfortable.

"Boys, I brought some hot buns. Well, they were a few moments ago. Please take one."

She thrusts the now opened bag right under John's nose and he grabs it on impulse rather than let it fall to the floor. A half-smile graces his tense mouth when he reaches down inside and grabs the largest of the lot. He holds it out to Sherlock who takes the pastry with trembling fingers.

Martha stays with them a few more minutes, finally gets around to asking John if he needs anything and fights back tears when he says that he just wants to go home. She leans over to hug him, stands and hugs Sherlock by bending over the back of the other chair then takes her leave.

"Mrs. Hudson, wait." There's a pause, and Sherlock adds a soft "…please." He turns to John, "I'll be right back." John nods and Sherlock follows Martha through the institutional gray door.

They pass Greg who has acquired a steaming cup of coffee. He bids Mrs. Hudson good-bye and thanks her again for the hot bun. She smiles and is quickly whisked away when Sherlock threads his arm through hers. Time was, many years ago, she would have been thrilled to have such a looker on her arm; she's still overly proud of this man but he makes her feel as fiercely maternal as murderous in turn.

"Sherlock, dear, your hand is shaking, please stop before you rattle my bones right out of my skin."

"Mrs. Hudson, I am truly sorry." Sherlock says as she turns to face him. Uncharacteristically, his head is hanging and he is studying his freshly-scuffed shoes as if they hold all the answers to the universe.

"Sherlock, I understand. We all do what we have to for our loved ones." Martha thinks about the interesting text message and then the phone call she received from Mycroft whilst she was _en route_ earlier. She still thinks he didn't need to be so overly dramatic about warning her, but the heads-up was certainly appreciated all the same.

"I don't think John is going to forgive me this time." Sherlock mutters to his feet, looking for all the world like a shy, gangly teenager about to faint from nerves.

"Sherlock, look at me." When he does, she says, "That's a good boy. Did you tell him the truth?"

Sherlock nods.

"Did you explain that you would never really hurt him that way?"

Sherlock nods again. Martha sighs and rubs her aching hip.

"Well, you daft idiot, what did he say already?" She doesn't mean to sound so testy, but she is ready to go home and spend some quality time with her herbal soothers then she'll see about making sure Mycroft's cleaning crew doesn't interrupt any of Sherlock's mad filing system.

Sherlock mumbles something that Mrs. Hudson doesn't hear, his expression far away. She reaches up and grabs his shoulder, squeezing as hard as she can. Apparently it is enough to get his attention. He finally meets her eyes, his fringe hanging willy-nilly over his forehead, his eyes filled with so many emotions at the same time that she would be hard-pressed to name them all.

"Give him time, Sherlock. Bring him home, be there. Show him you really mean your apologies, but give him time."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," he says quietly as he kisses her on both cheeks then gives her a real hug, his long arms wrapping completely around her back.

"Silly thing, get back to John," she says, smiling slightly and swatting at his backside. She makes sure he's on his way back down the corridor before leaving the hospital and heading towards the taxi stand.

Sherlock putters and fidgets for the next two hours while John sleeps. He is almost climbing the walls and is in the middle of coming up with a wall-climbing hypothesis to test when John wakes again.

"Sherlock, I don't know what you're thinking, but stop eyeing the walls." John's voice is a bit stronger now, less gruff and closer to his usual warm tenor.

Sherlock moves swiftly to his side. "I'll give you anything, John. I'll give up the work, John. I'll buy us a house in Sussex and stop chasing criminals and live the rest of my life studying bees. If you don't like bees, we'll raise orchids and roses or something, please, I've always wanted a Venus flytrap, but God, John, I need you to understand how sorry I am. I am so, so sorry and I don't know how to make it up to you. I understand if you want to leave Baker Street, the flat will have too many bad memories but I can't see myself living anywhere else. Of course, right now there are some who still believe me to be dead…but please, John. Please, I am sorry."

"Sherlock, breathe." John sits up against the headboard and opens his arms wide. "Come here."

For a few seconds, Sherlock hesitates then drops heavily into the chair and his head falls onto John's chest. John puts his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and holds him tightly, then tighter as his own chest begins to heave with the force of barely-concealed sobs. John pets Sherlock's head, lets him weep and considers what their next step on this crazy road they've found themselves upon is going to be.

**Acceptance**

John stands on the landing in front of their flat, at the top of the seventeen steps, with the door flung open wide, pondering. The place is much neater than usual, even when he was inhabiting the space alone. He's got a pretty good idea that the orderly appearance of the flat to Mycroft in some way. Strange how the feeling of it has changed so much in just a few days: from desolate to welcoming. What is even odder is the prickling sensation in his brain that if things would have been different, he would not be here at all.

John stares into their shared space while a film in the back of his mind showcases what had been there _before_: stacks of papers, books everywhere, his and his laptops, and random detritus from whichever case just ended plus the addition of a new one or sometimes more than that under way. There's nothing pinned to the wall over the sofa at the moment, just the yellow smiley doing is job by hanging there and trying to make everything better.

It never really worked for him.

It strikes John strongly that instead of looking into a flat, he is seeing a road that splits into three: three choices that could have been made.

He is fully aware that he made his choice and must live with that; that's a label he'll probably carry for a long time with or without Mycroft's interference on his behalf. On that other hand, it is difficult to be completely apologetic when it brought Sherlock back to him; he should be accustomed to such dichotomous contradictions within himself.

The very idea that he would never cross this threshold again, except as a ghost or a sad, desperate, lonely man…well, that isn't even worth the effort to contemplate at this point, now is it?

Sherlock has stepped up behind him and as always, the detective's ability to drag every smidgen of John's attention directly to him yanks John out of his maudlin thoughts. He can feel the heat radiating from the long, lean body behind him and he wants to turn around and drag him into the flat, cave-man style…

A flash of pain through his head, perhaps the beginning of a migraine, stops him from giving in to the lustful impulses. Sherlock shifts from foot to foot, oddly silent, uncharacteristically patient.

Even so, John has to admit to himself that it still hurts, the knowledge that his best friend, and perhaps more now, would leave him out of the loop so easily; he has no other choice than to believe Sherlock when he says that such a thing will never happen again.

Those words tumble over and over in John's mind. He considers them from every angle, searching for the loopholes Sherlock is always so proud of jumping through; so far, there hasn't been a single one. The detective said it, just like that, _it will never happen again, John_, so why question it? He knows why, and it all has to do with trust. He's run those words around in his head so much the past hours that it is a miracle that he's not dizzy from their repetition. Isn't that the greatest irony here? The one man in the world who understood clearly John's 'trust issues' is the one who let him down the most?

_God, I want to trust him_.

And that's the crux of the matter, really. From the first day, the first hour, hell, the very first five seconds! John trusted Sherlock. Unreservedly. Unashamedly.

John continues to stand there and stare as if the sitting room of the flat is some great work of art that he's never before laid eyes on. Maybe it is, though, maybe he really believed that this time he wouldn't ever be coming back to it. Maybe this is some alternate universe where he truly gets a happy ending.

Sherlock clears his throat behind him, a very soft, very polite sound that seems authentic. He shifts side to side again then stills.

John detests all of it. He spins around, ready for _anything_ at all except the broken expression on Sherlock's face. John's entire body freezes in place, except for the graze above his temple, the throb there has yet to ebb. Now he's got a matching one thumping above his eyes. He is unsure how to react to Sherlock's expression and he's just making up his mind to do something about it when it is gone. Wiped off the detective's features as if someone took a great eraser and simply rubbed it off.

"No," John snarls.

"John?" Sherlock asks, for once taken aback by the vehemence in the other man's voice and attempting to school his own reaction against what he knows John has seen. It is too late, the damage is done. He starts moving backwards, away from John's heightened state of emotion, only to find John has fisted a hand in his shirt and is holding him in place that way. The world tilts on its axis a bit more than it has already the past few days and Sherlock rapidly cycles through appropriate ways to end this scenario and draws a blank. So sure a few moments ago that John was going to turn around and touch him in some manner, now he adopts his usual cool demeanor.

"Just, no, Sherlock."

John, the flame that breaks through Sherlock's ice, finally breaks and grabs him by the forearms. Yanking him forward none too gently and dragging him into the flat, pushing him, though it is more of a rather rough _invitation _to pop his rear end down on the sofa rather than an _order_, but Sherlock is intelligent enough to do it, and certainly without the customary flair.

As soon as John lets go of him and starts pacing, Sherlock thinks, _well, I've finally done it this time_. He decides that there's only one thing to do at this point, so he does it. He stays put right on the center of the sofa, sitting up straight with his hands together in his lap, an echo of the child still inside. In truth, he wants to start talking, to explain, again; to just do _more_, though he knows this may be the only way because he's got to admit it, even only to himself, he's a bit thrown off course by John's actions.

John's pacing stops suddenly and he is right there, taking a page from Sherlock's book and leaning into his space. Lunging towards Sherlock, Johns stops himself by gripping the back of the couch on either side of Sherlock's head, similarly to the way he'd done in the hospital. John leans ever farther in, close enough that Sherlock wonders if he could _taste_ John's ire.

"Don't pull that crap on me, Sherlock." John's voice cracks like a whip.

Sherlock frowns and almost goes cross-eyed from his attempt to get a closer look at the differing hues of colors ringing John's pupils. When he doesn't say anything, John speaks up, accepting Sherlock's silence as if the other man doesn't know what he's talking about.

"I'm talking about that whole 'cold and untouchable' thing you did back there," John grits out as he rears back and points at the door that is still hanging open. "I know better."

Sherlock nods, still incapable of speech at the moment, though he does sit back a little farther and spreads his thighs.

Perhaps unconsciously, John steps even closer and gets right back into Sherlock's bubble, returns his face to its former position, huffs his breath over Sherlock's mouth and says earnestly, "I can't go back to what we had before."

"I meant what I said," Sherlock answers calmly as if his heart isn't doing its damnedest to beat right out of his chest at John's pronouncement. It is going to hurt to give up everything, yet he gains so much more than he stands to lose if things continue the way they have been. At least Moriarty is gone and will never be back to trouble them again.

John shakes his head, visibly relaxing in their nearness. Sherlock cautiously rests his hand on John's hip and sighs. He hasn't liked forcing himself to not touch him.

"You misunderstand. I would never ask you to give up everything you are." John reaches down to grasp Sherlock's other hand in order to bring it to his mouth. He presses a butterfly kiss to each finger then guides it to his other hip.

Sherlock's fingers tighten, his heart pounds and he knows his breathing has just sped up at the gentleness of John's touch. Somewhere in the unorganized library of the mind palace, he adds a new definition of the word _devastation_.

Neither one of them pays any attention to who moves first, because once they meet in the middle, it makes no difference. John's hand cups the back of Sherlock's head, tilting his face to get the best angle to kiss him. It quickly becomes less of a kiss and more a stake to a claim.

John growls a little, just enough under his breath and Sherlock decides that he's had about enough playing around. Without letting go of John's mouth, he tugs on John's hips, mutely suggestion that he should move closer. Taking the hint, John steps forward until the outside seams of his jeans rest against the inside seams of Sherlock's thin, tailored trousers.

Sherlock is ninety three percent positive that if it were possible to spontaneously combust he is going to do it in about four seconds. John left hand is cupping his chin, the right caressing the side of his face and Sherlock can see _nothing_ except for John. A heavy weight begins to snowball in his chest as he makes quick work of John's snap and zipper without looking away from his face. He carefully slips his hand in between the layers of denim and cotton, closely observing the changes in John's expression and the rapid acceleration of his pulse, which he can _feel_ now he's got his fingers as far around John's erection as he is able with his jeans and pants in the way.

"Oh my god," John grunts a little as Sherlock's fingers, confined as they are, pull slightly against the sensitive skin of his cock.

Sherlock strokes him slowly, John's hips bucking forward only slightly, as he begins to unbutton John's rumpled, checked shirt with his empty hand. John has leaned over again, his hands resting on Sherlock's shoulders, his head bowed in order to watch every movement Sherlock takes. Though there isn't much to see with his clothes in the way, the mere _idea_ is almost enough.

John's hand moves from Sherlock's shoulder to his nape, just under the last little curl that makes an upside down 'V.' John looks up from Sherlock's wonderfully busy hand and takes note of several rust-colored flecks amidst the dark curls. He knows what he wants, but he's got to figure out how to ask for it.

"Sherlock," John tries, but the detective is so focused on what he's doing that it takes a few seconds to answer.

Sherlock finally stops stroking but does not remove his hand. He turns his face to John's and John pulls back enough to look him in the eyes. Very gently he runs his palm over the back of Sherlock's head, barely touching his hair, yet it is enough that Sherlock exhales loudly and shudders against the almost-not-there sensation.

"Let's slow down just a bit, yeah?" John whispers.

Sherlock removes his hand then rests his cheek against John's belly, against the soft cotton tee he's got on beneath his wide-open button down.

"Yes, John," he rumbles.

They stay that way for a moment, soaking in what is happening. Back from the edge, John mutters, "My headache's gone."

Sherlock chuckles against him and John smiles against the vibrations running under his skin. He touches Sherlock's hair again, running his index finger over his ear.

"Shower?" he asks.

Sherlock nods into John's belly, which rucks up his tee shirt a bit more. Now he can feel Sherlock's breaths against his skin.

"If we don't bathe now, I'm going to drag you into the bedroom and shag you filthy."

"John!" Sherlock looks up now and John takes in his flushed cheeks and positively sinful looking mouth. John starts to backpedal until Sherlock shakes his head. "Go on."

John laughs, "No, clean first. Dirty talk after."

"Yes, John."

He steps out of the warm cocoon of their bodies and turns towards the loo, knowing Sherlock will follow him. Once there, they strip off quickly and efficiently, John turns on the taps and steps in.

"Get down here, where I can reach." John commands in a low tone.

Sherlock goes gracefully to his knees and tips his head back under the spray. John inhales sharply and reaches for Sherlock's shampoo. It takes him three rounds of sudsing and rinsing before he is satisfied that he's removed any trace of dried blood and dirt, though in the back of his mind he suspects it only needed to be done once. Sherlock remains quiet and pliant, only replying to John's gentle orders with "Yes, John."

Once he's finished going over every part of Sherlock's body with the lightly-scented shower gel they both prefer, he starts to soap up his own hair.

"John," Sherlock says, batting John's hands away from his head.

John cracks his eyes to see the bottle Sherlock's holding out to him, it's his shampoo. "Alright," John agrees then proceeds to make quick work of washing his hair. He rinses just as the curtain is pulled back and Sherlock steps out. He completes the job and turns off the tap, taking the offered towel with a smile. He's not quite dried off when Sherlock grabs him by the hips and hauls him into. The taller man bends down and takes a loud, dramatic sniff of John's hair.

"That's better," he states as if he's been waiting years to do that.

John thinks that maybe he has. Deciding then and there to waste no more time, he starts to leave the small, humid room and stops, his hands hanging down at his sides.

"Which…"

"Mine." Sherlock answers firmly then leads the way.

Just at the edge of the bed, Sherlock drops his towel. John almost swallows his tongue, as medically impossible as that might be, because not only is the detective now clean and naked, _he's crawling over the mattress on all fours_. John finds that his feet no longer work.

"That's…that's incredible." John stammers.

"Yes, John," Sherlock's deep baritone has been lowered by entire octaves and if that sound alone and not the coy eyebrow raised in his direction gets John moving in the right direction, well, then, can he really be found at fault?

As he climbs up next to Sherlock, John considers the past few days. Sherlock kneels, inviting John to follow suit. The first press of their naked chests against each other drives home the point that _this is real_ and they are both overwhelmed. They cling to one another, chest and hips pressing together, because this way even with their height difference, they are in perfect contact. Their hands roam over uncharted territory, finding and caressing scars and spots that make the other man sigh or moan.

John reaches between them, grasps both their cocks in his hand and strokes them together. Sherlock hisses between his teeth until John stops the sound with his mouth; Sherlock's lips are hot and dry but his mouth is wet and welcoming and John cannot get enough. In no time at all, they lean their foreheads to each other's shoulders and Sherlock wraps his broad palm around John's and the added friction is heady, intense and John can feel himself tipping towards his climax.

"My god, Sherlock," he pants, turned on as much by the sight of their hands working together as much as the feeling of it. Vaguely he thinks that they should have grabbed for some lube, but he knows himself enough to be aware that he isn't going to last any longer.

"Go on," Sherlock orders now, "let me see you come."

And those words, in that voice? John's orgasm that has been a steady hum in the base of his spine and the back of his mind since this began in the sitting room finally explodes. He turns his head slightly and clamps his teeth down on Sherlock's neck, losing control of his hand.

Sherlock moans and keeps stroking, his hand clamped harder over John's, using John's seed to lubricate both of them. As soon as John's teeth make contact at the base of his neck, Sherlock cries out and climaxes. A few more strokes and he has to let go, over sensitized and completely drowning in _John_.

John finally lets go of Sherlock's neck, moving his mouth away only enough to gently lave over the red welts with the flat of his tongue. Sherlock groans and leans heavily into John. Their thighs are shaking from maintaining their position this way, yet they are finding it very difficult to not let go.

"John," Sherlock breathes as John's licking turns to suckling, "I…"

John laughs lightly, an odd sound with his mouth still closed around skin, worrying the marks he's left there. He carefully rolls Sherlock's bullocks in his hand, liking the sound he makes as his thumb brushes against his spent cock.

"Ah, John."

John becomes aware that his lover is shivering now. Carefully, he presses Sherlock back onto the bed and yanks out the duvet beneath them. He climbs beneath it and Sherlock does the same. John stretches out on his back and before he can say anything else, Sherlock's head is on his chest.

John curls his arm around a trembling shoulder and yanks the bed clothes up around them, pulling them over Sherlock's back. They eventually fall asleep that way, sated and healing.

Around three AM, John is awoken by the gentle press of lips against his neck. He stays still for a moment, waiting to see what Sherlock is going to do, liking the feel of that mouth against such a vulnerable part of his body. Sherlock plants four kisses on one side of John's neck and four on the other side. John knows that somehow they are all perfectly spaced and equidistant from each other on both sides. He smiles into the mostly-darkness of a London before dawn and whispers, "I'm sorry."

Sherlock stills for a few seconds then wraps his arms around John's naked body, kneading John's buttocks with his hands. John rolls his hips forward, curious, but Sherlock shakes his head against John's neck.

"I apologize," Sherlock also tells the pre-dawn.

John nods, Sherlock settles back down. Instead of sleeping however, he rests quietly, occasionally touching the marks on his neck covetously and contemplates what it means to be completely devastated by someone, broken into a trillion pieces, and then so carefully put back together.

Sherlock thinks _this is love_, and tries the words out under cover of the shifting light as dawn begins to creep into the bedroom. He's got his head tucked up beneath John's chin and speaks so lowly that his voice is almost subsonic; he's not ready to say it out loud yet. There's still so much they haven't said to each other, a plethora of small hurts that need to be made up that he is honestly afraid if he says it too soon, John will leave.

Finally, having at least said the words and gotten them off his chest, Sherlock's mind grows calm and he sleeps. Just as he drops off into a blissful unconsciousness, John's eyes snap open, bright blue in the new gold of the morning light, and he smiles and thinks, _I am so glad to be alive_. And if he, too, whispers those three words into the soft matt of curls beneath his chin, then really, no one could ever hold it against him.


End file.
